Bad boy Britpop singing sensation Robbie Williams has been such a party animal through much of his adulthood, it’s no wonder director Michael Gracey takes the wild swing of rendering his character as an anthropomorphic allegorical ape for the biopic Better Man (C+). And the ups and downs of fame, self-loathing and addiction prove it’s hard out here for a chimp, even if behind his big hairy audacious goals of showbiz superstardom, he’s achieved oversized celebrity in the UK and cult admiration here in The States. The film shines in big production numbers scored to such hits as “Rock DJ,” “Angels,” and “The One” with clever, kinetic choreographed sequences punctuating lesser passages. Behind-the-music style beats comprising much of the bloated story don’t shed much light on the interior life of the simian songster played with CGI motion capture by Jonno Davies. Rise to fame, romance, rap sheets, rehabilitation, reconciliation and more are on display, along with tiresome hallucinogenic alter egos laced through concert crowds to cast doubt. The film’s occasionally meta presentation wins points with wry, often profane quips but reveals very little about what motivates the character at its center. After a long time in the wilderness hibernation of what can only seem like Cocaine Bear has invaded Pink Floyd’s hotel room, there’s some tidy and redemptive sentiment to cleanse the palette. More cautionary mental health tale than rhythmic romp (a far less fun Rocket Man?), this murky movie monkey business wears out its welcome.
Bob Dylan is lit — literature, in fact, to those lauding this iconic poet laureate of the folk music scene. But James Mangold’s moribund biopic A Complete Unknown (C) gives scant clues about what inspires and motivates the musician and man of mystery. What we are left with in a reverential but otherwise by-the-books look at the artist as a young man in 1960s New York is a very lived-in imitation by Timothée Chalamet in terms of voice and vibe. The talented actor capably inhabits the role of the rebel but not the cause: Watershed events ranging from violent global uprising to civil rights upheaval to high-profile assassinations are simply static on TV and radio snippets, and there’s nary a connection to why the troubadour is tuning into the pulse of any of this for inspiration. A few tepid love affairs (with squandered actresses Elle Fanning as Sylvie Russo and Monica Barbaro as Joan Baez), some minor conflict with festival organizers (including a sunny Ed Norton as Pete Seeger) and a petulant penchant for not playing what his crowds want to hear comprising most of the film’s run time. Oddly for the same director as Walk the Line, Mangold casts Boyd Holbrook as Johnny Cash, a spiritual guardian of Dylan’s transition from eclectic to electric. And there’s an unnecessary framing device offering little extra clarity. Some of the movie’s music sequences contain verve, but the whole enterprise is strangely one-note save the uncanny authenticity of the central performance. The film’s seeming thesis of not giving in to expectations is thwarted by never being all that grounded in any rules in the first place. Nothing dusty or gusty is blowing in the blustery wind of this interpretation. Instead of this feckless non-origin story, consider watching Martin Scorsese’s documentary No Direction Home.
